


every year the vines bear fruit (the grapes grow smaller)

by UnAmusings



Series: On the Grape Vine [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post Mpreg, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Trans Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27022108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnAmusings/pseuds/UnAmusings
Summary: It's been years now. He shouldn't feel this empty still. Not since so much has happened between then, and the suffocating now. Will has chased a madman and his ghosts across Europe, killed a self-made dragon, just to lose himself in a game for sanity he never had.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Series: On the Grape Vine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1972105
Comments: 13
Kudos: 105





	every year the vines bear fruit (the grapes grow smaller)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, this is not on brand for me, I am very much a fluff person. I just wanted to explore this idea, and develop something. 
> 
> This is unbeta'd, but I hope you like nonetheless.

Will doesn't look anymore. If he does, he swears the puffed ridge of the scar changes–that his fingers feel a different tissue with every stroke. So, he doesn't glare in the mirror, tracing the line across his abdomen. 

Instead, he closes his eyes, falling back onto the bed. All alone except the crumbling walls of a house that seem paper thin. 

He lets the golden pendulum swing behind his eyelids. Waits for his empathy to take a turn like it never has before, completely unlike the days when Hannibal was a healer and friend. Now, he reaches out to what he had hoped for once.

A small cabin by a river, with windows that trail in the light that reflects off the streaming water. In the background, there is the echo of knives being sharpened, and the clicking of a stove top. There are footsteps. Abigail's laughter following the quick but unsteady footfalls of a child. Will is happy, at least he thinks he is. 

His eyes flutter open, because even his imagination cannot stretch that far. It ends abruptly, because every day the, "what could have been," grows farther away. Even as he curls up, with only a wall between him and Hannibal, something tentative between them, there's one thing that cannot be replaced or replicated.

It's been years now. He shouldn't feel this empty still. Not since so much has happened between then, and the suffocating now. Will has chased a madman and his ghosts across Europe, killed a self-made dragon, just to lose himself in a game for sanity he never had. 

But Will can't help know he lost two children that horrible day. How is anyone supposed to stay in their right mind? 

Curling, he pulls up the covers of the bed. The scratchy cotton is like sand stuck between his toes, but preferable to the static in his brain. Will finds that the fetal position makes him want to scream, but he only coils deeper, wanting to tear at his own ripe underbelly.

The creaky door announces Hannibal's entry, though nothing else does. There are no footsteps over rickety floorboard, or subtle breathing. It serves to have the only echo be the pounding of Will's heart. With the bed dipping, he falls with the gravity until Hannibal is holding him. A perfect shape enveloping his back, bringing little warmth.

Only then does Will notice his tears. Maybe the only reason Hannibal sauntered in was the scent of misery and give it company. His sadness an acrid disruption to dinner, too potent to ignore. When a stray hand moves to wrap around his middle, Will's only instinct is dig his nails into the tender skin at Hannibal's wrist and pull it away. 

He knows better than to leave himself exposed, now. Never again. 

"What's wrong?" Hannibal asks.

Will almost laughs. If it didn't hurt so much, he'd laugh until his voice died in raspy hysteria. It's an anniversary, one where the semblance of family he had slowly built crumbled into the sea like foam. Tragedy seems immersed in irony that his life is a celebration of scars. 

For the first time in years, Will lets himself trace over the scar on his lower belly. Hannibal tenses, catching onto the source of pain. 

It's incredibly rude, but he answers with a question. "Did you know?"

Like a phantom limb, Will knows that Hannibal is rubbing circles into his hip. He just can't feel it through the sheets and his clothes. If he could, he doesn't think there'd be much comfort. 

"How am I to know what you haven't said?" 

Somehow, Will's lips turn upwards, a shaky grin. The patterns are repeating, a question for a question. However small, the smile doesn't last, it doesn't even linger for a moment. He doesn't know how to say anything without shattering. 

"They would have been almost five now," Will pauses, holding onto the weight in his throat before it spills over. "I like to imagine they would have had your hair."

Hannibal freezes. Not even a breath ghosts across the back of Will's neck. Everything is so still, he's almost convinced that they're as dead as the rest of the world thinks they are. 

Finally, the answer is given to him, in the slide of Hannibal pulling away, in the way he turns until their backs face each other. Hannibal hadn't known. 

For the first time ever, Will isn't alone in mourning the baby he'd lost.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can follow me on [tungl](unamusing-s.tumblr.com), for any questions! Or maybe just to chat lol


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